Introduction to Ethical Decision Making
by AnthroQueen
Summary: The concept of a decision is interesting, isn't it? Some say yes, some say no. Someone has to suffer so someone else can prosper. Someone has to fail so another can succeed. Make the right choice and everything seems perfect. Make the wrong choice and the results could be fatal.


**Don't mind me, I'm just intrigued by the storyline of Jeff reuniting with his negligent father. Oh, there's Jeff/Britta in here because I'm also crying into the remains of my ill-fated ship. If this sucks, I apologize. I'll try to write something better soon.  
**

* * *

Introduction to Ethical Decision-Making

In the end, there are only three things that he's absolutely aware of:

There are two mangled, broken bodies.

There is more blood than carpet showing on the floor.

He's standing in the middle of it all, holding a smoking, smoldering gun.

His deep blue eyes scan the room and take in the broken picture frame hanging from a single nail on the pastel yellow wall, the smashed bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter that's emptying its contents onto the sticky linoleum, the splatter of blood across the leather couch, the flat-screen television, the peeling wallpaper. It's absolutely gruesome; one body is jackknifed at the torso, blood flowing freely from a gaping hole in her stomach and from her heart, her simple pleated skirt and flowered blouse drenched in her own blood and intestines. The other body is slumped in a heap on the floor, half of her skull missing, her brains pouring onto the carpet. His heart gives a remorseless tug and he glances away just as he hears sirens in the distance.

This is something he hadn't anticipated but _of course_ someone had heard the gunshots. It isn't like they didn't have neighbors in their tiny, shitty apartment on the wrong side of town. He panics and chucks the gun across the floor, watching it slip and slide through the river of blood as he tries to do anything to make the scene less like something out of a horror movie. He realizes if he's going to get out of here without being seen, he must pull something dramatic and tries, quickly, to find a place to stash the gun. It isn't brilliant- he stuffs it in the oven underneath their uneaten loaf of bread- and then immediately begins to strip his clothes off, because he's covered in the girls' bloods. Just as he's reaching the door to the bathroom, the police burst into in the apartment.

"Police! Don't move!"

"Get down on the ground!"

There's shouting, there's commotion, there must be fifty people in their tiny room- police officers, paramedics, medical examiners, forensic specialists- but somehow, someone's knee digs into his shoulder blades, someone's hands slam his face into a pool of blood. His arms are wrenched behind him, stuffed into a tight pair of metal handcuffs, and though there's so much going on, flashes and screams and exclamations of horror, all he can think about is the terror he's about to face because of one simple fact- he hadn't been able to get away.

"You have the right to remain silent," A gruff-sounding officer was shouting at him from above as two others hoist him up from the floor. "Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in the court of law…"

He's vaguely aware of being forced back through the bathroom door, down the cramped hallway, past the broken bodies of women he used to love, and out of the apartment. Commotion is an understatement; there is a giant group of apartment residents gathering in the hallway, on the stairwell, and in the lobby because, let's face it, nothing exciting ever happens in this sleepy Colorado town. Whispers and rumors can be heard and as he passes the throngs of pajama-clad residents, he hears bits and pieces of the things they're saying- _oh, he looks like a killer_, _I heard the gunshots all the way from the parking lot, I can't believe he thought he'd get away with it_- just as the officer, looking unbelievably tired and uninterested, finishes reciting his Miranda rights.

"… You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…"

And then, through the depths of despair, he has a glimmer of hope. He glances up at the officers detaining him, just as he's supposed to be stuffed into the back of their squad car, and the gruff officer asks, "Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?"

He nods and smiles, something the officers immediately mistake for insanity, given the circumstances. "My son's an attorney. Call my son."

"Your son, huh?" The officer rolls his eyes, shoving him roughly into the car and slamming the door. "He better be a damn good lawyer."

* * *

It's three thirty in the morning when the phone's shrill ring pierces the silence of their cozy, four-bedroom family home. Jeff Winger awakens with a start- he'd always been a light sleeper, anyway- and immediately panics. Three a.m. phone calls are never a good sign and he instantly does a mental check on all the members of his home. He visibly relaxes as he realizes no one's missing, yawns and rubs his eyes, and sits up in bed, the sheets and duvet falling to reveal his bare torso as he squints in the darkness to find the source of his displeasure.

The phone is on the mahogany table on the other side of the bed and Jeff can't help but smile as he glances down at the slumbering woman beside him. She could sleep through a tornado and not be fazed so Jeff, chuckling slightly, decides not to wake her and reaches over her body for the telephone as it rings once more. Just as he's sitting back against the headboard, she groans, mumbles something incomprehensible, and rolls over to face him, still fast asleep, though this time she has a blissful smile on her face. It is, he must admit, the most beautiful thing he's seen in a while.

His voice is low and sleep-laced as he stops the phone from waking up his entire family. "Whoever this is better have a damn good reason for waking me up at three a.m."

"_Mr. Winger? This is Officer Lloyd down at the precinct. There's been a situation and you've been assigned to the defense of a new client._"

Jeff yawns audibly. "I have or my team has? I'm not exactly in charge, here. You'll have to talk to-"

"_He asked for you by name, Mr. Winger_."

This now has Jeff's full attention and suddenly he feels as though someone's doused him with a bucket of ice cold water. "Who is it?"

The color completely drains from his face and the conversation is over sooner than it had begun. He's barely aware of replacing the phone delicately back in the cradle, nearly jumping out of bed and tossing the blankets carelessly around as he searches for clothing. It's a routine that doesn't need thinking- underwear, slacks, button-down, blazer, tie- and he's thankful for that in the wee hours of the morning as he dresses himself while thinking of nothing but the previous conversation. It's then, only then when she realizes Jeff's no longer in bed with her, that the heavily slumbering woman awakens, rubbing her eyes blearily and pushing tousled blonde curls behind her ear.

"Where are you going?" She asks through a yawn, sitting and stretching slightly as Jeff, halfway through tying his striped skinny tie, acknowledges her. Her blue eyes dart sideways and widen in shock. "It's three forty-five!"

"I don't know. Something happened and I have to go meet with a new client," He tells her quickly but does a double take when he catches her eye in the mirror. She's wearing minimal pajamas, a vacant, exhausted expression, and has wildly untamed hair, but it makes Jeff grin because this, in a nutshell, is Britta Perry.

"It's probably going to be a while," Jeff says in an apologetic tone, crossing the room as opens her mouth to protest.

"These people realize it's Sunday, right?" Britta asks and Jeff shrugs.

"Crime and punishment knows no bounds," He tells her and she rolls her eyes, shrinking back underneath the covers of the bed and lying upon her pillow once more.

"Whatever," She yawns sleepily. "You promised to take the kids for ice cream today. They've been bugging me all week about it."

"I remember," Jeff smirks. "I'll be home before lunch… I hope."

"Hmm," Britta murmurs as Jeff shoves files and legal papers into his brief case. "I don't think I like these super early hours. It's like being married to a doctor."

"Ah no, that would be _me_, Dr. Perry," Jeff corrects, nodding towards her.

"I'm not a doctor yet," She contradicts and then asks. "Hey, what kind of incident? Some shitty accountant get busted this early?"

Jeff hesitates. "I can't really go into detail right now. I'm really late."

"Fine," Britta sighs. "We'll talk about it later then. Good luck."

"Thank you," He smiles appreciatively and hovers over her to capture her mouth in a kiss. "I'll be back later."

He had done a fairly good job of keeping his feelings in check, Jeff thinks, as he exits the house and locks the door behind him. At times it could be incredibly difficult to hide his innermost thoughts and musings from Britta, considering her profession. But all the while, throughout the entire conversation with her as well as his fifteen-minute drive to the prison, Jeff couldn't help but dwell on the conversation with the police officer he'd had moments earlier. The sun is just beginning to peek through the misty white clouds and fading purple sky as the morning dawns on a new day. But the words of the officer, the answer to his final question, still haunt Jeff's every waking moment.

"_Some guy by the name of William Winger. He says you're his son_."

* * *

Getting through the maximum security at the prison takes just as long as he'd expect and by the time Jeff takes a seat inside one of many visitation rooms, his anxieties have become visible. He's glancing around the room agitatedly, fingers drumming anxiously on his leg, as he notes the giant cobweb in the corner of the ceiling where the cinderblocks meet, the crack in the floor they covered haphazardly with caulk, and the creaky, uncomfortable chair on the opposite side of the table, in which his father would eventually sit.

It still isn't something he's ready to grasp; after thirty-some years of absolutely nothing between himself and his father, he would be coming face to face with him very shortly. There are so many things swimming around his mind, erupting to the surface like a volcano and boiling brain with unanswered questions. Where had he been all these years? How had he known that his son was a lawyer? And, of course, _what_ had he done? The anger, the confusion, and the pain all bleed into each other until Jeff is seething with this torrent of emotions, gripping the arms of the chair he's seated in until his knuckles turn white. How _dare_ he return after all these years begging for Jeff to get him out of trouble! But everything he's feeling, everything he's planning to say, completely leaves him the moment two burly officers lead his father, handcuffed at the wrists and ankles, into the room.

The moment he sets his eyes on his father, Jeff's sure he'll throw up. He's sickly-looking; face pale and sunken, hair dirty and straggly, arms just skin and bones. But he still has that same smug grin, that same conniving visage, those same manipulative eyes Jeff was frightened of as a kid and then adapted as his own as an adult. He looks almost exactly as he did those thirty years ago; the gaze of contempt he used to save for Jeff swapped out, now, for a look of gratitude and this makes Jeff even angrier. His father sits before him and the policemen exit, slamming the door behind them.

"Hi Jeffrey," William speaks and Jeff nods his head in greeting, still too overcome by anger to speak. "So… Small world, huh?"

"Tiny," Jeff growls. "You want to tell me why you're in here?"

"They think I plugged those Wilson girls," William shakes his head. "I didn't do it, though. You know that, right?"

"No," Jeff says tersely, flipping through the eyewitness and police reports. "It says here your neighbors heard shouting and gunshots. The police found you covered in blood and the gun had your prints all over it."

William looks sincerely at his son, trying desperately to make eye contact. "Jeff, I'm a lot of things, but I'm no murderer."

"Well that's what I'm here to prove," Jeff tells him skeptically. "So why don't you run your alibi by me, alright?"

For a moment, William looks as if he doesn't want to speak. But then he draws in a breath and begins. "Sarah and I had a thing a while back, but it was nothing, really. We were just keeping it casual. So this year, I met her younger sister, Samantha, and I mean she is- oh, _was_- a knockout. She had always said her sister didn't care that we were seeing each other, but that night I came to pick her up, because we were heading out to dinner, and I could hear them screaming at each other from the hallway. I got there and Sarah was holding Sam at gunpoint. I tried to wrestle the gun from her, to catch her by surprise, but she was faster and shot at me. She missed and got the wall, and told me she'd kill me if I came any closer. She killed her sister, killed herself and I… I watched. After, I tried to hide the gun but…"

He trails off and Jeff, still staring hard at the case files, clears his throat, asking, "Why would you hide the gun if you weren't guilty?"

"Because she was framing me!" William exclaims as though it's obvious and Jeff rolls his eyes. "She had my footprints and DNA everywhere! I had already handled the gun. It just… It looked bad."

"Yeah, because being in here charged with two counts of murder looks _so_ much better," Jeff sarcastically retorts and William snorts.

"Quite the sardonic tone," He chuckles. "Just like your father."

For the first time, Jeff glances up and meets his father's eyes, voice shaking as he says, "I am _nothing_ like you."

"Ah, right. Now we're getting to the good stuff," William sighs, sitting back against his chair lazily. "What's been going on with you? I see you've got a wedding band on your finger. How long you been married? Any kids?"

Jeff closes the files into his briefcase and places his hands- and, symbolically, his life- out of sight. "Why should I tell you anything? As far as I'm concerned, you couldn't give a shit about me."

"Now that's not true…" William trails off, but says nothing else. The two stare in stony silence for another moment before William smiles cunningly, asking, "So how long you been married?"

Jeff stands, motioning for the officers who are standing guard outside the door. "We're done here. I'll see you in court."

To the stuttering sentences of his father and the commotion the officers are making as they enter the room, Jeff leaves their session, exits the prison, and throws himself behind the wheel of his car. He sits there for a good hour, completely zoning out and mentally cursing himself for not saying a _damn_ thing. All these years he had contemplated what would occur if he were to see his father again and today, the day he finally had, he hadn't done anything. He'd imagined the scenario so many times- screaming in anger at his father all the things he'd always wanted to say, his father begging for forgiveness, the two rectifying their relationship or not fixing anything at all- but never, not _once_, did he imagine walking away from his father the way William had walked away from him.

He chances a glance at the digital clock on his dashboard and swears violently when he realizes it's after one o'clock. How had he managed to waste an entire day doing absolutely nothing at all? Jeff yanks the car into gear and heads away from the prison, towards his home, towards his family, towards his normal life. He thinks, on his road home, that he's never hated his father more than this very moment; he had finally managed to get his act together, to get to a place in which he was actually _happy_. And it figures, it's just freaking _Murphy's Law_, that his father would waltz back into his life to screw everything up.

The car idles in his driveway as Jeff, once more, picks up the case study, the autopsy report, the eyewitness and police encounters. As he continues to compare the notes, he realizes that something doesn't quite add up. The first victim, Samantha, had been shot through the stomach, just a few inches below the ribcage, but that shot would have been _impossible_ to have made from the doorway of the apartment, where his father had been cornered, according to his alibi, after failing to wrestle the gun from his ex. And if this was so, the second victim, Sarah, had perished from a gunshot to her left temple, must have performed the shot herself, seeing as there was physically no way for William to have held a gun to her head from five or six feet away. Jeff frowns, looking for evidence to convince him his father was guilty… And yet, he doesn't find anything. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed.

Sighing, he slams the car door behind him as he exits and trudges up the sidewalk to their home, realizing, with regret, that it is absolutely possible to win this case. This should be a thrilling moment; he should be celebrating, should be getting that certain high he always gets when he knows he's about to win a case, but something's stopping him from feeling that certain joy. Some part of Jeff Winger _wants_ to see his father rot in prison for the rest of his life and he knows, begrudgingly, that if he does a shitty job in court, he can purposely lose the case so that very thing can happen. Karma, he thinks, is a bitch. But is that really the decision he wants to make?

His thoughts are halted when, before he can reach for the front door, it bursts open and he's suddenly glancing down into the mischievous face of his six-year-old son. He's grinning up at his father, clutching a paper towel to his mouth that's slowly growing red with what looks like blood, and immediately greets his father with an overexcited shriek. "Dad! My loose tooth came out! I was just eating my lunch and then my tooth got stuck in my sandwich!"

Jeff, troubles momentarily forgotten, chuckles and steps into the house, shutting the door behind him. "Nice work, Luke! I told you if you worked that thing it would pop out."

"Yeah! I've been wiggling it all morning," The boy laughs, blood dribbling onto his chin. "When are we going for ice cream?"

Before Jeff can answer, he hears Britta's voice calling from the kitchen. "Lucas, are you dripping blood on my clean floors?"

Lucas shoots a guilty look at his father and checks the hardwood beneath them in a panic. "Oh yeah, Mommy said I have to stay over the sink."

Jeff grins. "Yeah, I think you better go find that sink."

He dashes off towards the kitchen and Jeff follows him, the late-lunch scene coming into full view. Lucas hops onto the counter, leaning over the sink so he doesn't bleed on their flooring and Britta crosses the room and replaces his paper towel with a clean one. She shoots Jeff a smile in greeting and resumes her position of wiping down the counters and table where they had just finished their lunch. He half-returns it, tossing his briefcase on the counter by the telephone and sighs heavily. He's desperately craving alcohol but before that can turn into anything more than a thought, there's a sound of thundering steps on their stairway and suddenly, his four-year-old daughter has attached herself to his leg.

"Daddy," She cries, face contorted with confusion. "It's Sunday! You said you don't work on Sundays! Where did you go?"

"Lyddie," Jeff says and extracts her from his leg to lift her into his arms. He glances at Britta, who smirks.

"She's been worried," Britta informs him. "She was singing her days of the week song and wondering why you were working on the weekend."

Jeff chuckles and Lydia smiles at him, saying, "You're home now. Does that mean we can go for ice cream?"

"Oh, that's why you wanted me home, huh?" Jeff teases. "Thanks, Lydia, I feel so loved."

Lydia shrugs and wriggles in his arms until he puts her down. "I love you, Daddy. But I love ice cream, too."

This makes Jeff and Britta laugh and Lydia giggles too. Lucas decides his mouth is no longer bleeding and the two race outside, calling over their shoulders that they would be waiting on the swing set. Jeff watches them jump off the patio, Lydia giggling as Lucas chases after her, only to argue over who got the tire swing. He chuckles and shakes his head, turning to find Britta watching him, her gaze questioning. Jeff crosses the room to sit at the kitchen table, Britta following, and immediately all of the levity of the previous moment has gone.

Britta hesitates at first and then asks, "Bad day, I take it?"

"The absolute worst," He runs a hand over his face, exhaustion finally setting in. "I mean, I'm in way over my head here. This isn't a shitty accountant I'm dealing with, it's a _double homicide_."

Her eyes become saucers. "Are you serious? Where did this happen?"

"The other side of town. The nastier side," Jeff tells her. "But it gets worse- the suspect is my father."

"No!" She expresses in shock. "You have got to be kidding!"

"I wish I was," Jeff sighs. "I mean the man hasn't been seen or heard from in over thirty years and suddenly, he's found with a smoking gun and two dead bodies about twenty miles from where I live. Doesn't that seem a little bit… convenient?"

"You think he did this to talk to you?" Britta asks, skeptical. "Hell of a way to get your attention."

"Well I don't think it was intentional," Jeff frowns. "Plus he's innocent, I think, which sucks."

Britta laughs. "Why does that suck? If he was found at the scene and he didn't commit the crime, that's a miracle."

Jeff shrugs. "I want him to be guilty."

'I bet you do," She softens, placing a hand on his knee. "You want to punish him, right? For what he did to you and your mother."

"Britta, I didn't say _anything_ to him. That's the worst part," Jeff admits. "I've been planning this big speech ever since he walked out, planning to make him feel awful about what he did, and when the moment came, I walked away. I chickened out. And I had the perfect setting, too, because there was no way he'd be able to get away. But I couldn't handle it. I was as weak as he was and I walked away. He told me today that I'm just like him. Maybe I am."

"You're not," Britta shakes her head and when he rolls his eyes in response, she insists, "Jeff, you're _not_ like him at all. You have a home and a job and a stable relationship with your family- things you have because you're not the selfish, arrogant man I met in Spanish 101. You grew as a person in ways your father never will and I don't think you walked away today because you were weak. I don't think it's because you couldn't handle it. I think it's because you, naturally, wanted him to feel _pain_. You were, undoubtedly and understandably, hurt when he left all those years ago and you wanted him to feel the same way."

"That still doesn't make me any better than he is," Jeff says. "It's not exactly the best decision, is it?"

"Well," Britta pauses. "I do think you still need to sort out your issues with him, but locking him in prison for the rest of his life when he's been wrongfully accused isn't the way to do it."

Jeff frowns even though he knows she's right. "So I'm not an idiot for walking away from him without saying anything?"

"Not a _complete_ idiot," She teases and he smirks. "No, you were probably just overwhelmed. It's completely understandable. And you aren't like your father at all. As far as I'm concerned, you've never wanted to leave the kids-"

He hears the shrieks of laughter as Lucas and Lydia continue playing and states, adamant, "No. Never."

"- and your father walked out on your mother, but you've managed a fairly successful civil union with yours truly…"

"I hate when you call it that. Can't you just say 'marriage'? 'Civil union' is a term for homosexuals," Jeff rolls his eyes and Britta chuckles. "And fairly successful? Really? We're going on seven years, here, I'd think we're a bit more than 'fairly' at this point."

"Well then, see? You have nothing to worry about." She tells him and watches his gaze slide from her eyes to his father's case folder, resting on top of the briefcase. "You know what you have to do."

"I know," He nods and in all seriousness says, "I have to take the kids for ice cream before they hotwire my car and drive themselves."

Britta smirks and states, "That's not what I meant."

"I know," He states and ignores her protests by kissing her.

* * *

"_In the case of the State of Colorado versus William Winger, we find the defendant not guilty and move he be fully exonerated of all charges_."

Jeff sighs in relief, a tone of regret mixed in here and there, four months later during the final hearing. William, in cheap suit and tie, actually cries with relief and turns to embrace his son, who, upon instinct, backs away two feet. When all the dust and reporters have gone and Jeff has apologized on behalf of his father to the Wilson family for their daughters' unfortunate murder-suicide, William is finally a free man and ironically, he has his son to thank. They pause on the courthouse steps, Britta, Lucas, and Lydia already waiting by the car, so William can properly thank his son. He seems at loss for words and Jeff shuffles his feet awkwardly, making the first move.

"For a moment," Jeff says quietly. "I was going to let you go to prison."

William nodded. "I had a feeling you might. Ah hell. I'd deserve after all the shit I put you through, kid."

"You left," Jeff simply states, just putting it out there. "Why?"

"I'm not sure if you remember, but I was shit dad," William shakes his head. "Drank all the time, hit your mom… There was that time I forgot you at the zoo, you remember that? You couldn't have been more than seven."

"Yeah, I remember," Jeff replies, thinking again of the elephants and shuddering. "But you still left. You didn't have to go. It nearly destroyed Mom, did you know that?"

"She hated me, Jeff."

"She hated you more when you were gone."

William's silent for a bit before asking, "You have kids? You never did answer me."

"Two," Jeff responds, pointing towards his car on the other side of the parking lot. "They're over there, with my wife."

"Then you understand what it's like to look into the eyes of your kid and realize the world is all kinds of fucked up," William drones. "There's rapists, murderers, molesters, pornographers, kidnappers- you name it. There's disease, disaster, destruction. There's poverty, there's hunger, there's _suffering_. All that's wrong with the world and you're supposed to protect your kids from all of it. And when I looked at you, Jeff, I knew I couldn't do it. I'm just as shitty as all those things I listed and I knew you'd have it better if I wasn't part of your life."

"You didn't even try," Jeff counters. "The difference between you and me is that I'm there to make sure my kids don't see those things yet. I'm there to see the first time they ride a bike or the first time they lose a tooth or their first day of school. You missed that. You missed _everything_."

William sighs, kicks a few pebbles and frowns. "It wasn't my finest hour, Jeff. I've made a _lot_ of poor decisions."

"Yeah, so have I," Jeff tells him and glances back over at Britta and the kids. "But I've also made a lot of good ones, too."

"You got a good heart, Jeffrey," His father says. "I'll give you that. That's your mother talking, for sure."

"Does she know you're here?" Jeff asks. "In town and just escaped prison?"

"No, but I've been meaning to pay her a visit," He says. "That is, unless you want to introduce me to your family? Meet the grandkids and all that?"

Jeff smirks. "Yeah, right. Baby steps, Dad."

William smiles. "You calling me 'dad' is the only step I need."

He walks off towards his own transportation- the city bus- and Jeff is left standing, awestruck, at the fact that he had just called his father 'dad.' Jeff's sure he's gone off the deep-end, now, and heads slowly but surely over to his own family. Lucas greets him with a hug, congratulating him for winning, and Lydia asks if this means he wins a prize. Jeff laughs, shakes his head, and announces they're going out to lunch to celebrate. "Celebrate?" Britta asks. "You must've had a good talk."

"It wasn't terrible," Jeff admits. "I said the things I needed to say and I managed not to make a complete fool out of myself by yelling. Win, win."

"That's great," Britta smiles. "So now that that's over, we're done with William Winger, right?"

"Actually, no," Jeff tells her. "He wants to meet you and the kids."

"You're joking," Britta deadpans. "I have nothing to say to that man!"

"Oh come on," Jeff says. "If I can talk to him, so can you."

"And say what? Thank you, William Winger, for damaging Jeff's ego to the point of no repair?"

"My ego's fine!"

"You're a magnificent father who should write self-help books?"

"I wouldn't _lie_ to him so blatantly…"

"I'm so glad you decided to come back into Jeff's life at a point that's convenient for you?!"

"Britta," Jeff chuckles. "I think you're angrier than I am."

Britta crosses her arms over her chest. "Doubt that's possible, but I hardly want to be friends with the man."

"Hey, did you say William Winger?" Lucas asks from the backseat.

"Yes, why?" Britta confirms.

"That's my last name!" Lydia giggles and Britta smirks.

"Yes, it is, baby," She nods. "William is… He's…"

"He's a cousin of ours," Jeff finishes and Britta shoots him a look. "What?"

"Who doesn't want to acknowledge his existence now?"

"Baby steps," He repeats to her and she nods.

"Oh, I get it. Small bites of the elephant."

And Jeff shudders once more, remembering his ill-fated trip to the zoo. "How dare you."

Britta's laughter fills the car the entire ride long.


End file.
